


What I Really Want

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 10YearsOfSherlock, Bisexuality, Childhood Friends, Coming In Pants, Daydreaming, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Identity discovery, Unilock, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: For the first time, John lets himself imagine what he really wants with his best friend.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 215
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	What I Really Want

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who I Really Am](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9677030) by [agirlsname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname). 



> Ten years today since ASiP aired! I've only been here for four of them, but those four years have changed my life. I was so alone, and I owe the fandom and these two idiots so much. It seemed imperative that I publish a fic today to show my gratitude!
> 
> I've published fewer fics lately, and it's because I'm working on an original novel based on my fic _Who I Really Am_. I've created new characters, of course, and made them younger among other things. I also decided to finally up the rating, and was pretty happy with the result and thought it was too bad I didn't share that with the fandom in the original. So here I am, transforming a chapter of the novel back into a fic. I'm not making it into a series with WIRA, because this is another universe entirely with its unilock setting, but it's certainly inspired by that fic and has the same fundamental theme of self-discovery and bisexuality.
> 
> Oh, and do feel free to laugh at me for making a fic from a novel from a fic - I could keep doing this in an endless circle, I'm sure!
> 
> Thank you Berty for alerting me of the upcoming anniversary and thereby kicking me out of my writer's block, and elldotsee for the initiative of the collection. And as always, thank you Akhenaten's Mummy for loyal beta duties.
> 
> Here's to ten more years!

The lights on the bus are dim and it's dark outside. Rain taps against the windows. The rumble of the engine is even and the rows of seats are empty, and something about that makes this feel like an exception in time. A space that only John has access to, being the only passenger on the bus tonight.

The red numbers on the digital clock above the doors are slowly idling towards midnight. It got a bit late before John managed to drag himself up from Sherlock's cosy sofa and head out into the rainy night. He needs to study tomorrow; shouldn't have let himself stay for so long. The bus ride between Sherlock's flat and John's house takes forty minutes and he still forgets to take that into account, so used to just running across the street between their houses.

He loves spending time at Sherlock's new flat, though. It feels like a luxury – to be just the two of them, undisturbed and free.

John tilts his head to the side. Looks at his own faint reflection in the dark window glass without really seeing it. He still feels warm from the nest of blankets on Sherlock's sofa. There's a quiet sort of glow in his entire body, concentrated in a little bundle inside his chest. He always feels like this when he's been with his best friend – this smiling sensation right behind his breastbone seems to belong to Sherlock.

They've been watching some movie – well, _John_ was watching. Sherlock was scoffing and mocking John. He does that every time – has done for the ten years John has known him. But here's the thing: He always agrees to watch films with John anyway. John deduced years ago that Sherlock secretly loves their movie nights. The shouting is just a part of it.

Sometimes John gets this tight feeling in his lungs when Sherlock does that. When Sherlock is being so ridiculously, achingly, adorably _Sherlock_ , John sometimes can't breathe through the affection he feels for that boy. Sometimes he doesn't dare glance at his best friend, too overwhelmed by Sherlock's imperious energy, sharp gaze and dark hair, all pulling John towards him like a gravity field.

And sometimes, when Sherlock shouts at the telly, John shouts back. Tonight he did. As a general rule Sherlock gets even nastier then, and has the audacity to smile in delight when he does. John can't be blamed for finally snapping. He lunged for Sherlock and tackled him onto his back on the sofa; anyone would have done the same.

John wasn't prepared for how much stronger Sherlock would be now that they've grown up. He didn't have time to think through the possibility that Sherlock would fight back and they'd end up wrestling on the couch.

It's been… John doesn't even know how long it's been since they last wrestled together. They did it a lot when they were kids, but they stopped when it suddenly seemed weird. At some point John started feeling oddly unsure of what's normal and what isn't. And the fact that he even has to ask himself that question is a bit odd in itself.

Twenty-year-old Sherlock is not as skinny as the ten-year-old version was. He's still thin, but in a more compact way. More muscular – though not more so than John. And most importantly he's still ticklish. John still knows precisely where to tickle him to make him squirm and giggle.

He can almost hear Sherlock's deep laugh in the dull roar of the engine. Even now, he can almost feel Sherlock against him. Beneath him on the sofa.

John wonders if they could start wrestling again even though they are adults. Then he tries to stop wondering.

But there is something about the bus' steady movement through the night that makes John's thoughts linger there. With Sherlock pressed against him, panting and laughing. Familiar and new; a body that Sherlock has grown into but that John hasn't gotten to know. Hard, trembling muscles as Sherlock struggles to get the upper hand. Clavicles that cast shadows over the base of Sherlock's neck. Hipbones that cut into John's thighs. Secret places of softness hidden around the waist of Sherlock's lean body.

Thinking about Sherlock, _really_ thinking about him – tall and strong, dark voice, heavy scent – makes John feel strangely dizzy. Time stops moving in reality and pours instead into the memory, letting it move in a new direction.

“ _Do you surrender?”_

“ _John!”_

The sound of his name in Sherlock's voice fills his blood with gold, warm and liquid.

John is no longer tickling him. He fights to keep his advantage, to prevent Sherlock from getting a lucky hold and turning them over. His heart beats so hard in his chest that he feels the pulse echo everywhere in his body, pounding, burning.

Sherlock is no longer laughing. He breathes hard, twisting and turning under John's weight. Sweat has broken out over his skin and releases his scent, sweet and warm. The smell of him makes John daring. He lets his whole weight fall onto Sherlock's body, capturing him from head to toe.

Sherlock's chest is firm and solid against John's. It's like an anchor, a rock, a safe weight that pushes against John's lungs. Allows him to take deep breaths without his chest exploding.

Sherlock must feel the same, because he tips his head back and breathes. His long, loud exhalation shoots through John's body like a shock. John holds Sherlock's wrists against the cushion above his head, but Sherlock has stopped fighting back. He still twists and turns, but there's something restless in his movements now. His body undulates up towards John, as if to get closer instead of getting away.

John doesn't know how they went from wrestling to _this_ , whatever it is. And now he doesn't even remember why he should have stopped it. It aches in him everywhere he and Sherlock touch, and he tries to get closer to relieve the ache. No matter how close he gets, his lungs gasp for him to get even closer; he will burst if he doesn't come closer than this.

Here, Sherlock's sharp edges are gone. The concentrated focus in his cool eyes has fallen away. His eyelids flutter as he tries to hold on to his clarity, only to helplessly lose his grip again when John's hips lock him against the cushions. Behind the hard façade Sherlock is soft and welcoming, living and hot; John can feel him glowing through the crisp fabric of his shirt.

John's hips land against Sherlock's concave belly. Sherlock's shirt has come loose from his trousers and tangles between them. John hears Sherlock breathe unsteadily through his nose, trying to control his breath while lifting his hips to meet John's.

John lets go of Sherlock's wrist before he knows he's going to do it. His hand slides up and laces together with Sherlock's long fingers, and Sherlock grips his hand, hard. He could overpower John now. He could easily turn them over, but he stays where he is. His hips almost lift from the sofa, seeking John's, and John slides down a bit along Sherlock's body.

Oh, God.

He can feel Sherlock through two layers of denim. Sherlock makes a sound that John can feel all through his chest. It's shockingly intimate that a part of Sherlock which he claims is uninteresting, now presses shamelessly against John; a silent prayer for _some_ _thing_ , for _anything_ , for _John_.

John lifts his head. He can see every move he makes play out on Sherlock's face. His eyes are closed and the red spots blooming on his cheeks are something John has never seen on him before.

He is so beautiful.

Sherlock wraps his legs around John's to hold him in place. His fingers are cramping around John's hand. When Sherlock comes, he gapes, and he looks as though nothing in the world can reach him where he is now.

John stretches up towards Sherlock's face, dazed and overwhelmed, and bends down to kiss him.

He is thrown back to reality, unprepared and unfinished. Sherlock's mouth slips away from him just before he reaches it.

The rain pounds against the bus window and John is about to burst. He twists in frustration in his seat and blinks at the black window pane. Even in the blurred glass he can see the blush on his cheeks.

He glances at the clock and confirms that it will be another ten minutes to his bus stop. “Oh, God”, he murmurs. He can hardly breathe, and it aches between his legs.

No matter how he tries, he can't stop thinking about it for the rest of the trip. His thoughts constantly slip back to the sofa in Sherlock's new flat. He sees Sherlock's face before him, lost in pleasure.

He knows with amazing certainty that this is exactly how Sherlock would look. Even though John has never seen a glimpse of something like that in Sherlock, he's sure that Sherlock's eyelids would be smooth and his cheeks flame just like that if he ever let anyone touch him. John has never been able to imagine anything so clearly.

And he has never wanted to see something so badly.

It's no use. There's not a chance in hell that he can _think_ _away_ the uncomfortable situation pushing against his fly. He just has to power through until he gets home.

When he finally closes the front door behind him and locks it, he takes off his shoes and jacket as quietly as he can not to wake anyone. He doesn't get farther than the darkened bathroom before his hand falls to his belt.

It takes less than a minute. He's vaguely aware that he's making pathetic whimpering sounds in the echoing room. When he tips over, it seems to last for an eternity.

John finds himself sitting with his back against the bathroom door, panting and sweaty.

His thoughts become clearer as the sweat cools. There is no way he can explain away what he just did.

The blood sings in his veins and it tingles all the way to his feet.

He can't even bring himself to regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have a particular weakness for teen/unilock friends to lovers, so it's possible I'll come back to this universe later.
> 
> Fun fact: Between writing this fic and posting it, my best friend (who I daily watch movies/series with) and I realised we have feelings for each other and became a couple. AND that conversation started with me confessing to being a writer of Johnlock smut. You can no longer tell where my life ends and Johnlock begins!


End file.
